


The Strings Section

by archipelago



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Implied homophobia, John and Sherlock being little cuties, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:44:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archipelago/pseuds/archipelago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock cuddle in the back of a theatre.</p><p>AU teenlock, one-shot</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Strings Section

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Sherlock.
> 
> The musical mentioned is my favorite musical of all time, _Les Miserables_.

“Hey.”

Sherlock's voice is a low whisper in John's ear, and he smiles as the baritone sends a pleasant shiver down his spine. On stage, Harry hits a sour note, and the smile becomes a wince. The director raises a hand and the orchestra stops playing. Under the bright stage lights, his sister is flushed red with embarrassment. It's two days to curtain, and she woke up with morning with a terrible cold. She can hardly speak, let alone sing, but Harry is stubborn. Nothing short of death will keep his twin sister from opening night, so here she is: staying after school for a full dress rehearsal when she ought to be at home, resting.

John nods toward the pit. “Shouldn't you be up there playing, Mr. First Chair Violinist?”

A snort. “I don't enjoy playing with talentless idiots. I quit last night.”

“ _What_?”

Turning in his chair to face the boy behind him, John gapes. “Sherlock, the show starts in two days! You were the only half-decent musician in the strings section!”

“Exactly. The _only_ one. Do you know how torturous it was for me?” Sherlock rolls his eyes at the stage. Harry's started her song again, and she sounds better. The violinist replacing Sherlock, however, is notably sharp. Both of them grimace. “God, could Anderson be more inept? No, wait. I shouldn't say that aloud. He might hear me and think it a personal challenge.”

It's John's turn to snort. “You're terrible.”

“You like it.”

John grins. “Arse. What are you doing here if you don't need to practice?”

“You're here,” Sherlock shrugs. He runs a finger down the back of John's neck. “Come here, you're too far away.”

Reaching forward, Sherlock hooks his hands under John's armpits and pulls him up and over the back of the row of seats. The music swells as John falls into Sherlock's lap, just managing to stifle a giggle. He tries to stand and move into the next seat, but Sherlock tightens his arms around John's middle, keeping him in place. The last few rows are barely lit, hiding them from anyone toward the front of the theatre. Everyone is distracted, watching Harry with worried expressions as she blows the low note in “I Dreamed a Dream.”

“Do you think she'll be able to sing this Friday?” John asks, slumping down so that he can lean back against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock huffs out a sigh in his ear. “Clara Winchester is still suffering the same symptoms, and she's had the cold for a week.”

“Clara?” John imagines the skinny, red-headed girl who shares his physics course. “Harry knows Clara?”

John can feel Sherlock's laugh through his chest. The sensation dips downward toward his groin, and he takes a steadying breath.

“Please,” Sherlock says, “ _please_ let me be there when you ask Harry about this conversation.”

The implication sinks in. “Harry and...” He shakes his head. “Seriously? For how long?”

“A few months.”

“And you never told me?”

Sherlock hooks his chin over John's shoulder. “I thought it was obvious. Stolen glances, extraneous touching, blushing. When I deduced that you hadn't guessed, I thought it best for Harry to tell you on her own. She didn't, and I'm tired of keeping her secret. So.”

John sighs. “You and your deductions.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his tone brittle.

Shifting his weight, John turns back to look at Sherlock's face. It's difficult to make out his expression in the dim light, but there's tension in his hold that wasn't there just a moment before. John reaches up and grabs his chin, forcing the taller boy to meet his eyes.

“What's happened? Did someone say something to you?” John loosens his hold so that he's cupping Sherlock's cheek. “Sherlock...”

“I didn't exactly quit the musical,” Sherlock admits, swallowing a lump in his throat.

“Then—you were kicked out? But... _why_? They need you pretty desperately.”

Half the strings section hits a sour note in unison, proving John's point.

“Anderson said something at rehearsal last night. About you and me, I mean, and I—reacted poorly. Mr. Hardgrave only heard what I said and would not listen when I tried to explain, so I...” He twists away from John's touch and turns to stare at the stage. “Well, I told him a few things about his wife, and what she does when he isn't around.”

John groans. “Sherlock...”

“That prick called you--” Sherlock shuts his eyes and hugs John closer, turning his face into the smaller boy's neck. “And Hardgrave didn't even reprimand him. Didn't say a single word about it. It doesn't matter. I'd do it again.”

Black curls tickle John's skin. Sherlock is rarely so tactile; under different circumstances, it would be very pleasant. John reaches up and brushes a hand through the other boy's hair. “Well, thanks. For what you did, I mean.” He ducks down, presses his lips to Sherlock's temple. “I just wish you hadn't deduced Hardgrave. You should use your powers for good, not evil.”

Sherlock's voice is muffled. “He was evil first.”

The music stops as the director climbs onto the stage, talking to Harry and Victor Trevor, who is this production's Jean Valjean. His words are indistinct, but his voice is a low hum in the background.

“True. Still, I wish you wouldn't use your gift as some kind of—I don't know...” John searches for the right word. “Weapon. Especially when you could use it do something good. What about the crime thing you mentioned before? You figured out that that kid at the swimming meet was murdered.”

“Yes, and what for? The police didn't believe me.”

Extricating himself from Sherlock's grasp, John moves into the open seat on the right. He leans on the adjoining armrest, grabbing Sherlock's hand and holding it between both of his own. “They will one day, if you keep trying. They have to. You're brilliant—you're the most brilliant man I've ever met. You know that, right?”

Sherlock glances over at him, eyes sharp and skeptical. He rakes his gaze over John's face, but there's no trace of irony there, no laughter—he means every word. He truly thinks Sherlock capable of anything.

John Watson is a singular human being.

He casts about for something to say—something that fully expresses just how glad he is that John exists, that he is real and that Sherlock somehow found him when he wasn't even looking, when he'd decided long ago that there were no _Johns_ in the entire world and had resigned himself to a very lonely life—but the enormity of it all gets stuck in his throat and won't come out, so he leans across the arm rest and captures John's lips with his instead.

The house lights go on, bathing them in brightness. Harry catcalls from the stage, and they jump apart.

“Mr. Waston! Mr. Holmes!” The director calls out. John tries to remember the man's name—Harry complains about him two hundred times per day, he really ought to know it by now. “Is there a reason you're dropping in on our rehearsal?”

“Just, uh,” John stutters, going beet red, “making sure Harry's alright. She had a rough day, what with being sick and all.”

The director looks as though he is about to throw them out, but he is interrupted when a man pops out of the pit. Under the harsh lighting, Hardgrave's bald head shines like a beacon. He calls out, “Holmes!”

Sherlock slouches further into his seat and says nothing.

“I can see you back there! I—well. Look. Perhaps I...I shouldn't have...” Hardgrave heaves a sigh. “Well, do you have your violin with your or not?”

Sherlock perks up and tries deperately to look as if he hasn't done so. “No, not with me.”

Hardgrave frowns. “Well, just use Anderson's, then.”

Everyone ignores Anderson's protest, and Sherlock turns to look at John. He's smiling, large and genuine, and John can't help but lean forward and kiss him once more.

“Please go save the strings section,” John mumbles against Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock exhales and rolls his eyes, but there's a grin playing at the corner of his lips. “Well, if you insist.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday gift for my lovely beta, sureaintmebabe!
> 
> sureaintmebabe has been an integral part of my At Seventeen series. Without her, nothing would get written. She listens to me ramble, makes brilliant suggestions, talks to me about the writing process, calms me down when life is kicking me in the face--in summary, she is the best. I owe her so much, and I wish I could do more for her than give her a silly little one-shot.
> 
> THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRIEND! :)
> 
> Un-beta'd (it was a surprise!), so if you see mistakes, please let me know.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :D Let me know what you thought of it!


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